


this valentine is doomed

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Gay Character, Dom/sub, F/M, Fantasy, Female Character of Color, Female Homosexuality, Gay Male Character, Guns, Light Sadism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, References to Suicide, Rimming, Smut, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:11:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times Sebastian gets off of thoughts of killing Santana, and one time it goes differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this valentine is doomed

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is M for: D/s dynamics. Fantasized murder including: sadism, gun violence, rape, strangling, blades, and suicide. Intercourse between two gay characters of different gender (oral and PIV), drug and alcohol consumption, dubcon-ish situation.   
> Originally written for the 30-day writing challenge: order.  
> If you control+f one. and go down to the third result, you can skip right to the (attempted) smut.

**one.**

She’s stopped singing; he counts thirty, forty seconds before it’s over. He grabs her by her hair, behind her head, exposes her neck sideways. She’s staring at him, staring from under her eyelashes, bent. She doesn’t move or speak. She knows what’s coming. Maybe she came here hoping she’d get her wish. Hoping he’d put her out of her misery.

It’s a good deed, after all.

He grabs the gun and puts a bullet through her brain, a hole in her forehead, her eyes go out.

She’s still smiling as she wipes his bloody, bloody blazer on her body.

 

**two.**

She doesn’t know what is going on anymore, and it’s been so easy. A hand ghosting over her glass, a flash of white powder, and he has her where he wants her, bare and naked and bent over on his bed. Her hair is thrown over her face, so instead he stares at the back of her neck, where he’d want to bruise, had he gotten more time. He wishes she would stop blabbering, but it’ll still do. He strips, and it’s quick, so quick he’s ashamed; he presses a pillow over her head when she starts screaming.

At least she’s gone soon after.

At least he got an orgasm out of it.

 

**three.**

This one is his favourite, slow and steady, the feeling of skin on skin, dragging, and it’s better than sex. It is sex, in a way: Santana is tied up, naked over the naked mattress, and she’s never looked prettier than she does now, with the strong rope around her wrists and ankles and slithering across her body. He’s kneeling over her, straddling her, his hands on her neck. He looks at her like she was made for him, for his hands on her neck.

Tight.

He hears it snap and break.

 

**four.**

He gets traditional after that: he’s afraid he’s saying more about his unusual sexual proclivities than about how much he hates this girl, this woman and her long hair and her perfect, perfect skin. No more nakedness, no more fuckedupness, he swears. In revenge he’s standing over her body, she’s kneeling, he’s wearing an embroidered kimono. The sword is heavy in his hands: she raises her chin proudly and he cuts all the way through her neck in one smooth movement, like thread through a needle.

Her body collapses almost in slow motion, crumples over his feet. In his dream that’s when the cello comes out, the melody a mix of _beentheredonethat_ and steady new beginnings.

Cellists were her wish anyway.

 

**five.**

This has to end someday: stuffing his head in a pillow and getting off of… _those_ thoughts. This seems to be the end of the road, and isn’t that appropriate? Sebastian swears he has a thing for her bones, her skin, in that he wants to watch it break and tear, and he wants to be the one to do it. He wants to sit her down and run a clipper over her scalp until her skull is bare and her breasts, her back are covered in hair, her hair. He wants to watch as bruises bloom and blossom across her, violet and purple and red-blue patches of pain, like a painting. He wants to alter her body in ways that are his, make her his.

Instead he gets to stand with her at the edge of a skyscraper and jump. He gets to watch her in her last moments and plummet down with her. Maybe that’s what he’d been waiting for. The means to an end.

He doesn’t get to think any more before they crash. She reaches the ground before him, a split second of her skull being cracked open, her fingers convulsing over his, before it’s lights out for him as well.

He doesn’t dream after that.

 

 

**one.**

It goes differently.

They meet at a bar in New York, three years, three years after he let go of all that teenage drama, and he can tell she is drunk from afar, from the way she smells. Drunk and desperate and sad. He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t act like the nice guy. She wouldn’t believe it anyway.

It’s like the good old times: he calls her Shaqueera and she pretends not to notice he can’t think of anything better, and she mentions tattoos in unusual places.

He chokes on his drink when she mentions, out of the blue, “Girls have those parts too, you know.” She could as well have it tattooed on her forehead: “I want to get laid.”

It’s a split second of wondering what does a lesbian find attractive in him, before he remembers all the ways he dreamt about fucking her.

He doesn’t think about it much. The how and the when don’t matter when everything since Dalton has been leading them into this.

He’s the one to call the cab.

+++

He pushes her on the bed, gets her to kneel down, her head smashed on the pillow. He pushes her hair back, hold her wrists together over the headboard. This is what he dreamed of back then, but he takes it in another direction when he drapes himself over her back, an arm around her. He mouths hot and tight over her neck, her back, bites hard on her shoulder. He knows he doesn’t have long before she gets impatient, and they can’t have that.

Her fingers knead the sheets as he goes down, the way he knows to. He holds her down, pressing hard over her as he opens her out, as his tongue gets past the rim. It’s a feeling he knows, and he doesn’t pretend to be tender or inexperienced. He can hear it in her moans, in the noises she makes. She has this way of getting a short intake of breath before a low growl, something that reminds him how good of a singer she is.

Sebastian doesn’t have much knowledge of female anatomy, but he figures it’s not enough for her to get off. He keeps her busy with his fingers: he doesn’t waste any time before starting to fuck into her in earnest, the wetness and feeling of it all new to him.

She’s loud, louder than he’d imagined, but she’s too drunk to be bossy. She lets him have her way with her, and since he intends on getting her off he figures that’s as good a deal as she’s going to get. She doesn’t tell him what she wants, or if he’s doing it wrong, so he figures he can’t be too bad.

He flips her around, and her eyes are glassy, wanting. He lets go of her hips, lets Santana fuck his face as he licks over her, tongue flat over her clit at first and then kissing messily when she pulls his head closer, twists her fingers in his hair to get him where she wants him.

He’s _not_ getting off on giving, he’s not.

Santana starts to beg for more then, high-pitched and whiny; his fingers, his tongue working over her don’t seem to be enough anymore. He gets up to grab a condom, but she doesn’t let him crowd back over her. Instead she gets him to sit up across the headboard and sinks down over him before he even gets to blink.

She bites his lips closed, hard, and that’s when he realizes he must have been loud in his bliss, warm and wet over his cock and _god_ , how long has it been since he last got laid?

+++

She works him to orgasm slowly, a skill she acquired in high school, cross-legged around him and moving her hips back and forth, undulating. It’s all tight space; she presses him on the corner, an arm blocking his vision, thrown over his eyes, and licks across his neck, his chest, kitten-like.

He can’t see her but he feels the grace of her movements, her hips undulating and rough, so rough and it doesn’t even leave him room to pull back, and he feels himself coming, tipping over the edge slowly, so damned slowly he feels he’s free-falling with her and the wind on his face, and as he starts to scream her name, as he starts to give her what she’d be waiting for, as he feels himself go numb and heavy with the bliss of orgasm—she pulls back.

It’s a second before he realizes, the cool air on his dick as he comes back down, his fuzzy vision, and she steps back farther away, crawling out of reach on the mattress.

He’s coiled tight, hard and desperate, and she smirks at him. She’s got him where she wants him now, and if he had any illusions of being on control again, of pushing her back down and showing her the power he could exert over her, it’s all forgotten now.

She’s on top of him, whispering in his ear, breath dirty, hot on his neck. He stares at the ceiling without truly looking at it, a hand on her back and clawing deep at her skin. He doesn’t talk and he waits for the release he knows is coming, he knows she will give him.

Santana wants him to beg, and she gets him to, of course she does, his voice low and tight as he calls her name, as he _begs_ , something no one had gotten him to do before then, lest of all a _girl_ —

Her mouth is hot over his dick, what he’s been waiting for all evening. She works at the base with her hand, a fucking work of art, sloppy just the way he likes it and so, so quick before he comes. He’s been so close, coiled tight for _hours_ , he can’t even be ashamed. Her head is bobbing up and down and she stares straight at him, the fucking bitch, her eyes dark and a damned smirk around his girth, that’s a skill even he doesn’t have.

He comes over his own stomach while she pumps him through his orgasm, and afterwards she bites hard on the inside of his thigh and tells him he has ten minutes to be gone, congratulates him on a good fuck before locking herself in the bathroom.

+++

He shows up at the same bar four nights in a row after that, but he doesn’t see her. He’s gotten more than the best end of the deal, and he still feels like this is the lousy side of the bargain.

He’d learn later Santana has a way of doing that to people.


End file.
